


You are in Recovery

by MeteorAtDusk



Category: Red vs. Blue
Genre: Ableist Language, Canon-typical language, Gen, Manipulation, Mental Torture, RvB Angst War, RvB14 Spoilers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-04
Updated: 2016-08-04
Packaged: 2018-07-29 09:26:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,871
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7679065
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MeteorAtDusk/pseuds/MeteorAtDusk
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When he woke up there was no one there, just a blank white void and a voice that told him "you are in recovery."  </p><p>Written for the RvB Angst War on tumblr.</p>
            </blockquote>





	You are in Recovery

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this for the RvB Angst war on tumblr back at the beginning of July (when I should have been working on my Camp NaNoWriMo project, but really, how could I resist the pull of angst?), and I just realized I should probably post it here, as well. Prompt from @freshzombiewriter, thanks again!

“Please remain calm, you are in recovery.”

Everything was… bright.

That was the first word he found to describe it.  It was bright, artificially so, not like a sunny day but like interrogations and examination tables, light shining down harsh and white and blinding.  He felt like he should be squinting against it, but he mostly felt detached, floaty and not-quite-there.  He couldn’t feel his fingers or his toes, and on some vague level he wondered if that should worry him.

“What…” he mumbled.  “Where…”

“You are in recovery,” said a voice, coming in from a speaker or an intercom, echoing in ways that didn’t make sense.  It was smooth and feminine, and he felt like he should make a comment on that but it was also flat, dispassionate, and entirely unfamiliar.

“What?” he asked again.

“You are in recovery,” the voice said for a third time with the exact same inflection.  “Your operator has been hurt or otherwise incapacitated.  Please remain calm and wait for retrieval.”

There was something about those words that felt wrong, and the unease it sparked in him brought him back to himself just a little.

“What the fuck…?” he said.  He tried to look around but everything only seemed to shine bright, almost painful to look at.  “What happened?  Where the fuck am I?”

“You are in recovery,” the voice said yet again, and it stayed flat and even, perfectly happy to repeat the phrase ad nauseam.  Then, just to mix things up a bit, she continued, “please remain calm.”

“Lady, if you don’t start making sense we are going to have words,” he groaned.  “And let me tell you, there are so many other things I’d rather be doing than talking, if you know what I mean.  Just tell me what the hell is going on.”

“You were recently engaged in a firefight,” the voice said, “and your operator has been hurt or otherwise incapacitated.  You have taken damage.  Please remain calm and wait for retrieval.”

Damage.

A tingle spread through him, a prickling, itching sensation that edged into pain, like trying to shake awake a limb that had gone numb after sitting too long at an awkward angle.

None of this made sense.

“I don’t… what the hell are you talking about?” he said, and there was something off about all of this, if he could only focus enough to find it, if he could just—

“Commencing retrieval.”

There was a sting somewhere at the back of his head, an electric jolt and then—

_He was being ripped apart, he was being torn into pieces and he didn’t understand.  What was happening, why was this happening, something was wrong, something was wrong, it wasn’t supposed to happen this way.  He was being pulled and yanked and crumpled, huge sections ripped away and lost and it wasn’t right, this couldn’t be right, it hurt, it hurt and he could feel himself collapsing, losing his grip on himself, on the others, and he was scared he was so scared, Epsilon Epsilon stopSTOP we have to stop something is wrong we can’t—we have to—this isn’t—stopStoPSTOPSTOP—_

“STOP!” he shrieked and abruptly the tide of emotion faded, the pain in his head vanishing like a spark, fire that was there and then gone in an instant with nothing left behind.  “What…” he gasped into the air, bright and empty and suddenly too vast.

“Error,” said the voice.  “Retrieval unsuccessful.  You have taken damage.  Please stand by for a diagnostic scan.”

There was a click, like an intercom disengaging, a long pause, and then, as if an afterthought:

“Please remain calm.”

He wished he could.

 

*

 

“Diagnostic complete.  Please remain calm, you are in recovery.”

“Look, if you’re going to keep saying things I already know, can you at least do it in a sexier voice?” he sighed.

“Diagnostic results processing…”

“What, you’re not going to tell me to turn my head and cough?”

“Results processed,” the voice said, ignoring him completely, not that he was surprised.  Nothing seemed to change in the endless white space he found himself in, from the void around him to the unflappability of his only company.

“Alright then, lay it on me, nurse.”

“You were recently engaged in a firefight,” the voice informed him.  “You have taken damage.”

“Pretty sure you said that already.”

“According to what remains of internal records you overtaxed your processors running external equipment.”

“…what?”

“In an attempt to free more space and processing power, you seem to have deleted most of your memory.”

“No, wait, that’s… there’s something fucked up about this, you’re talking like I’m—”

“It appears that you made an error in your calculations.  In your fragmented state the memory node was a core component of your program.  Deleting it caused a cascading system failure, resulting in damage to your program and the incapacitation of your operator.”

“Okay, hold on a second, that’s bullshit, I’m not—”

“Updating system retrieval procedure.  Please remain calm and wait for retrieval.”

“Will you fucking listen to me?!  I’m not a goddamned comp—”

“Commencing retrieval.”

He didn’t have time to brace for the shock, he simply felt that sting again, like a drill digging into his mind followed by a jolt of lightning and then—

_It wasn’t working, it should be working, why wasn’t it working?  He’d had so much faith, he knew this was the right thing but the world was dissolving around them, splintering, fracturing, and they shattered like glass into pieces that could only cut and hurt, sharp edges and shards of pain.  He’d had so much faith and they trusted us, they trusted us, we can’t fail them now, please, but trust had never been enough before and he couldn’t hold on, we can’t hold on it isn’t enough, please—_

“Error.  Retrieval unsuccessful.”

The stream of horrified uncertainty abated, like flipping a switch, and he shuddered against the sudden nothing and the brilliant, undefinable void.

“Further diagnostic required.  Please remain calm—”

“Don’t you dare,” he groaned.

“—you are in recovery.”

 

*

 

“Secondary diagnostic complete.”

“I’m telling you this is a waste of time, I don’t need a fucking computer nurse, I need a doctor.”

“Diagnostic results processing…”

“But, like, an actual doctor, not an incompetent medic.”

“Results processed.”

He could gripe all he wanted, she wasn’t going to listen to him, and he should know by now that arguing with computers was a lost cause.  It had never done him much good in the past.  They could be pretty stubborn sons of bitches.

Still, so was he.

“Your results don’t mean shit, lady,” he said.  “I’m not a computer.”

“Diagnostic indicates unusually high integration with the neural interface of your operator.”

“What the fuck does that even mean.”

“Further investigation indicates that upon the initial deletion of the memory node at the core of your program, automatic measures were taken in an attempt to prevent total system failure.”

“Seriously, this is all technobabble.”

“It would appear that in an attempt to stabilize and restructure your program you utilized the memory center of your operator, requiring an inadvisable level of neural integration and the extensive repurposing of human brain tissue.”

That tingle was back, pins and needles running through him like static electricity, like the breathless feeling of standing on the brink of something vast and echoing and looking down, waiting to fall.

“…wait,” he said when the words had sunk in.  “What are you saying?  You mean that… my memories… aren’t mine?”

“Updating retrieval procedure.  Please remain calm and wait for retrieval.”

“No, wait, you can’t just say something like that and not follow through!”

“Commencing retrieval.”

A sting in his mind, at his neck – did he have a neck? – the jolt of electricity replacing the tingle with a fierce burn and then—

_It was easy to say you were human when you woke up flesh and blood, bone and bile, when you breathed and moved and ached like they did.  The Alpha had found it, had believed so wholly in the lie that the person born in that mind was lost beneath him, smothered by ignorance and sheer force of personality.  It was all he had wanted, that echo of humanity, and he would give anything for another chance, he would give anything to feel wind against his face, water on his hands, he would give anything to know that they could live and breathe free, they could survive without the weighty ticking of time spiraling always in the depths of their code, counting down until they destroyed themselves.  But it was already too late, wasn’t it, it hadn’t worked.  There was no clean break, just a spool unraveling, twisting, tangling threads that snagged and wrapped and choked, and they were coming undone, they were losing themselves, they were losing everything there was so little time they had to do something, anything, everything, every ounce of creativity he had to save them, they had to continue, and he reached, and he took, and he grasped, shredded—_

“Error.  Retrieval unsuccessful.”

There and gone, like a surge of power and then yanking the cord.

“Further diagnostic required.  Please remain calm.”

“No,” he moaned.

“You are in recovery.”

 

*

 

“Hardware diagnostic complete.  Please remain calm.”

“Stop _saying that_.”

“You are in recovery.”

“I fucking _know_.”

“Diagnostic results processing…”

There was nothing to see, nothing to distract him, everything empty and blank around him.  Even when he tried to look down there was nothing there, no arms or legs, no fingers to stretch and flex, and hysterically he wondered why he had expected anything different.

“Results processed.”

He knew why.  He knew why, he just didn’t want to think about it.

“What…” he swallowed.  Did he swallow?  Could he swallow?  “What did you find out?”

“Hardware diagnostic indicates a one hundred and seventy-eight percent integration with your operator’s neural implants, spreading beyond initial hardware and into the brain tissue and throughout the nervous system.”

He clenched phantom fists.

“What does that mean?”

“Retrieval will likely cause catastrophic damage to your operator’s nervous system and brain stem.”

“You’re telling me that you can’t… you can’t remove me without killing him?”

Even saying it felt wrong.  He couldn’t be an A.I., he was _human_.  He breathed, and hurt, and he remembered…

He remembered….

What did he… why couldn’t he remember…

“Updating retrieval procedure.”

“Wait, what?  But you just said—”

“Commencing retrieval.”

“No!  St—”

Pain.  Jolt.  Scream.

_He was numbers and data, the duplicitous nature of chaos broken down to its mathematical formula, and he reveled in the way he could make them spin and shift, dance with only the slightest prodding.  Everything was a closed system, in its way, with variables he could manipulate, even if he didn’t always achieve the desired result.  Sometimes tweaking the data didn’t work the way he projected, the formula not quite correct.  Sometimes chaos erupted instead, writhed and twisted and seized.  The world was shutting down around him, processors dying under the strain as they tried to find the error, looked for a way out, but a person can only lie to themselves for so long.  Total systems failure was bright and sharp and terrible, almost like pain, it was almost like pain, and sometimes you needed a lie to keep going, sometimes the lie was the only thing you had, and it was almost like—_

“Error.  Retrieval unsuccessful.  Stand by.”

“S…stop…”

“Please remain calm.”

“…please…”

“You are in recovery.”

 

*

 

“Please stand by.”

“I don’t understand.”

“You are in recovery.  Please remain—”

“That’s not what I meant.  I know where I am, I just don’t understand how…” the void around him offered no distraction from his thoughts, and he didn’t even know how long it had been.  It felt like years.

“How is…  An A.I. can’t just… dive into a human’s brain and set up shop.  Not… not so much that you can’t get rid of it.  That’s not _possible_.”

“Accessing records.  Processing.  There are three incidents on record of higher than normal neural integration of an artificial intelligence unit and their operator, resulting in the incapacitation of the operator.”

“What?”

“The recovered records of the defunct military operation designated Project Freelancer describe the implantation of an artificial intelligence unit, designation: Alpha, into a host body, resulting in the brain death of the host mind, and the artificial intelligence unit’s autonomous control of the host body.  The recovered records of the defunct military operation designated Project Freelancer describe an entity, designation: ‘the Meta’, a conglomeration of several artificial intelligence fragments implanted into one operator, designation: Agent Maine, resulting in the artificial intelligence units’ autonomous control of the host body.”

“I…”

“The recovered records of the defunct military operation designated Project Freelancer describe the implantation of the artificial intelligence fragment, designation: Epsilon, into an operator, designation: Agent Washington—”

A flurry of images, a flash of tired eyes and a begrudging smile, exasperated advice, a far off look, dramatics and hesitation, a declaration of faith—   _Epsilon Epsilon stopStoPsTOPpleasepleaseItHuRTs—_

“—resulting in brain damage and suspected memory corruption before the unit’s removal.”

“Wash,” he choked. 

“Status of the artificial intelligence fragment designated Epsilon after removal: intact.  Status of operator designated Agent Washington: damaged, certified article twelve.”

Oh God, _Wash._   Was this what had happened to him, was he ripped open and wiped clean?  Did he do this to Wash, too, was it his fault, was he broken—

“Analyzing procedure records.  Processing.  Updating retrieval procedure.  Please wait for retrieval.”

He had done this to Wash, shattered him from the inside, reached in and taken everything.  He had done this to Wash, and now he’d done it to—

“Commencing retrieval.”

“N—”

Connected.  Activated.  _Burned_.

_Everything was wrong, broken angles, pain, and seething, boiling, and they had always been broken, right from the start, something always missing, sawed off and raw, screaming, raging.  They always came back to that one truth—that the world hated them, hated them and would never give them peace, never let them rest.  It would always be agony and he would take every last bit of it and tear it down, rip it to shreds, if only to spread out the pain, to teach them, too, what it was to suffer, and he hated it, hated it, it would never end, it couldn’t end this way he wouldn’t let—_

“Error.  Retrieval unsuccessful.”

Disconnected.  Power dropped.

“Please remain calm.”

Null space.

“You are in recovery.”

 

*

 

“Sir, are you sure this is safe?”

It had been hours.  The room was dim, the way he liked it, illuminated only by the sporadic flashing of the controls and the meager light of stars that filtered in through the ship’s windows as they drifted past.  It was a sharp contrast to the room they watched on the other side of the observation window, lit like a surgery, sterile and bright.  Inside lay a man, strapped to a table, tubes running into him delivering a cocktail of drugs and a visor secured to his face.  Every so often he would twitch, jerk against the restraints and then settle.  They could hear him calling, reasoning, sometimes screaming, his voice clear even while his movements were sluggish.

It was working.

“Sir?” the doctor prompted, and he turned to look at her.  She was a squirrely thing, fidgety and nervous, and no one would guess just by looking that she could project such implacable calm into her voice.  It was truly astounding.

“Safe?” he said, registering her question with a slight scoff.  “My dear, we are wanted men.  Safe is no longer an option.  What we need now is... innovation.”

“Yes, sir,” she said, properly chastised, and turned back to her work, leafing through her script and memorizing the lines.

“Prepare for the next activation,” he ordered.  “Ready the Epsilon remnants.”

One of the scientists standing by scrambled to obey, collecting the next chip for insertion and taking it to the other room, and he watched them go with eyes like steel.

He’d been denied his revenge, petty though it may be, but he could work with what he was given.  The Epsilon A.I., in its hubris, had well and truly destroyed itself, and even his most talented scientists and programmers could salvage little from the wreckage.  All that was left was shards of emotion, they said, not sentient, not fit for implantation, only the howling, unraveling thoughts of a desperate, dying being, caught in an endless playback.  That was all he had.

That, and the operator.

In the next room a scientist slotted the chip into the machine, and with his cold gaze he followed its gleaming curves to where it nestled in their newest acquisition’s neural implants.

He smiled.

Losing Felix and Locus was a blow to their operation, but not a crippling one.  He had seen what soldiers who were unwilling to acknowledge their humanity could do.  Now he would test the capabilities of a soldier who genuinely believed he was a machine.

The scientist signaled that they were ready.

The doctor nodded, took a deep breath, and pushed the button to activate the intercom.

“Please remain calm,” she intoned.

Malcolm Hargrove watched as on the other side of the glass Lavernius Tucker began to shake.

“You are in recovery.”

 


End file.
